Permanent Consequences
by FraidyCat
Summary: Sometimes, sorrow makes no difference at all.
1. Roll With the Punches

**Title: Permanent Consequences**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Genre: Drama, Angst**

**Summary: Sometimes, sorrow makes no difference at all.**

**Disclaimer: Yonder goes the ownership of all things "numb3rs"; and alas, it ain't me…**

**A/N: Look, I took a little whump break with my last story; a deep breath, if you will. My roots call to me now. Watch the timeline hints at the beginning of the chapters – there could be some jumping around.**

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**Chapter 1: Roll With the Punches**

**TIMELINE: Present Day **

Hunched over his desk, largely ignoring a turkey sandwich that sat next to him, Don's fingers were starting to cramp. It was decent of Megan to think of adding something extra to the office take-out order that morning. Since he had still been in Assistant Director Merrick's office when the Intern came through, making his list, Megan had known that Don would probably be unable to join the rest of the team for lunch. Being Team Leader involved signing off on everybody else's reports, as well as carrying the lion's share of other administrative tasks that Merrick tossed their way.

So, exhausted after a morning seminar introducing new protocol to all Team Leaders, Don had been gratified to find a note on his desk when he got back there just after noon. He found the turkey sandwich in the refrigerator, stopped at the machine for a bottle of water – that must be Charlie's influence, he had been on a real health kick lately – and carried it back to his desk. He wasn't really supposed to eat in the office, but he slammed the sandwich on the desk and dared anyone to mention it.

He nibbled on it as he made slow headway through the paperwork that had piled up in his absence. His appetite had never really come back after the accident. If Megan hadn't thought to leave him something, he probably would have skipped lunch. He wasn't trying to hurt himself, or make himself sick; he just honestly forgot half the time. When he did sit down at a meal, enjoying it almost seemed like…some sort of betrayal. So he picked at it.

At least, that's what the therapist they had made him see had said. After almost three months of having problems with both eating and sleeping, he had passed out at a crime scene and landed in a hospital. It was an eye opener. It had terrified him that the team may have been on a bust, at the time. He could have been backing somebody up when his body decided to imitate a wet noodle. It scared him enough that he went willingly, when Merrick suggested counseling. He already had one shooting on his conscience, and he would be damned if he could handle another one.

He had actually been taken off field duty for six weeks while he bulked up a little, and took sleeping pills. The entire office had been very understanding. His own team always stood behind him in support, and pretty much everyone at the Bureau had an interest in what had happened. Their sympathy and kid-glove treatment would have been humiliating and enraging, if Don had been able to care.

Despite all the counseling, all the private soul-searching, all the interrogations from his father, Don was still not sure what was different, this time. Anger and action had always been his coping mechanisms. Hell, the last few months his mother was alive, he had been angry all the time. Charlie, coping in his own solitude in the garage, had been a convenient target. Don had been able to focus his energy and round up enough anger to last long after his mother had finally died.

No matter what happened, he had always been able to count on his first round of self-defense.

Until this time.

This time, he didn't have the energy to get angry. It took all that he had just to keep from killing himself, some days.

……………………………………………………………………………………

When Charlie got off the elevator and started into the bullpen, he noted the lack of activity. Truth be told, it was why he wanted to get here during the lunch hour, if he could. There would be fewer curious and sympathetic glances, and negotiation was easier the less crowded a place was.

He approached Don's desk, a little surprised to see him sitting there. The rest of the team was obviously gone. He observed the barely-touched sandwich on Don's desk, shifted the folder he was carrying awkwardly, and sighed unhappily. Don was taking this so hard. He was more of a different man these days than Charlie was, and it broke his heart. He stopped a few feet from the desk. "Donnie. You need to eat your lunch, not just sit it on your desk."

Don's head whipped around at Charlie's voice, and he smiled nervously. "Hey, Charlie, what are you doing here?"

Charlie started moving again, and Don frowned, dropping his eyes. "I wish you would get one of those electric ones. If your insurance won't pay, you know the Bureau will."

Charlie rolled beside the desk and stopped, his hand on the wheel. "We've discussed this, Don. You know it's not a question of money. I want to use my arms. It's helping me develop upper body strength." He smiled, a little proudly. "Did Dad tell you that I can load the chair into the car by myself, now? Once I transfer into the front seat, I can lean over far enough to get a grip on my wheelchair; and now that I have some resistance, I don't just tumble back out!" He laughed a little at the end, and Don tried to smile.

He picked up the sandwich and took a huge bite so he wouldn't have to, and wiggled his eyebrows at the folder in Charlie's lap. Charlie looked down, and picked it up. "Oh. Forgot I moved that there from the backpack. Listen, I don't know if you want this. I was cleaning up my office and I found this old case file. The Zimmerman case, remember? It's almost a year old. I didn't know if you needed to file it, or something."

Don swallowed and accepted the file. "Thanks, Charlie, but you didn't have to bring this all the way over here. Most of the stuff we gave you was copies; we try to keep all originals on-site."

Charlie nodded. "That makes sense. I have some appointments downtown today anyway, and…I wanted to see you."

Don's smile was more genuine, but laced with worry. "Charlie, you don't need an excuse to see me. Just call, and you know I'll come right over."

Charlie played with the spokes of his wheels and lowered his voice. "You don't have to come to me all the time, Don. I'm back to an active lifestyle, now. I've returned to CalSci part-time, and I'm still involved in therapy, and I'm working with Larry on a paper about his experiences on the space shuttle…. Dad says he hardly ever sees me, anymore!"

Don didn't answer, so Charlie pushed on. "Don, I wanted you to see I can do this. I can come here, to the office, and get to the bullpen. I want to talk about consulting, again."

Don's head started shaking, and Charlie allowed a small plea to enter his voice. "I know we may encounter some new challenges, especially if I need to see a crime scene, but there is still a lot I can do, Donnie, and I…"

Don stood and spoke with a barely-controlled anger, having suddenly rediscovered it, slapping the Zimmerman file on the desk. "NO! Absolutely not, Charlie, not in ANY capacity. This is not open for discussion. Do you understand me?"

Charlie stiffened in his chair and glared up at Don. "I beg your pardon? I'm an adult, Don – and you are not the only agent in this office. I can go over your head, to Merrick, and let him know I'm available again."

Furious, Don leaned over and grabbed the arms of Charlie's wheelchair. He shook them twice. "You do that," he hissed, "and I will submit my resignation. It's already written, in the top drawer of my desk."

Charlie paled a little, and placed his hands on top of Don's. He was beginning to develop callouses from operating the manual wheelchair. He'd have to do something about that, because he did not want to stop touching people. "What do you mean, your resignation is already written?", he asked fearfully.

Don's face closed as if curtains had been drawn, and he straightened up and then sank down in his own chair again. He ran a hand through his hair. God in heaven. He had just used physical force on his paralyzed brother. "I'm sorry," he choked. "God, I'm sorry."

Charlie stared at him and wondered if he was talking about the wheelchair shake, the threat, the accident – or all three. "So am I," he finally said, deciding it was an appropriate response to any of the above. His heart ached at the misery lined on Don's thin face. "Will you come home for dinner tonight? Please?"

Don closed his eyes, then opened them again. He avoided Charlie's gaze. "I will not discuss your coming back as a consultant," he warned.

Charlie rubbed his hands together, preparing to back out of Don's space. "I just want you to come over," he answered in a small voice. It was apparent to him that Don was broken, and the only way to help him was to make him face the truth; no matter how painful that was for all of them.

Don picked up the sandwich and dropped it unceremoniously into the trash can beside his desk. He took a moment, then finally let his wounded eyes meet Charlie's. "Whatever you want, Charlie. I'll do whatever you want."


	2. What Did He Say?

**Title: Permanent Consequences**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Refer to Ch. 1 – and don't ask me again.**

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**Chapter 2: What Did He Say?**

**TIMELINE: Approximately eight months earlier… **

Charlie observed the faces of the agents who confronted him in the conference room.

Don sat at one end of the table, expression impassive, refusing to look at him. He concentrated instead on an intricate doodle he was creating on the border of his notebook.

David met Charlie's glance and smiled at him encouragingly. _"Keep trying,"_ his friendly expression said. _"We'll get there eventually!"_

Megan's forehead creased in concentration, and she was frowning at the white board. Her head tilted slightly to the left, and Charlie could tell she would be the first to understand the theory.

A huge smacking sound echoed in the room, and Charlie's eyes were drawn to Colby. The agent was scraping the residue of a burst bubble off his face, while working on another one. He regarded Charlie guiltily, as if he expected the teacher to make him spit out his gum into his hand, like Mrs. Stevens had made him do in second grade.

Charlie just stared at him and sighed. He left the white board and crossed to the table, where he exchanged his dry-erase marker for a leather-bound day planner that lay slightly in front of Don. Holding it up as a visual aid, he tried again. "Your victim's day planner contains his network. His appointments, the names and numbers in the contacts section, business cards that are stuffed in corners. The more you can find out about who he knew, the more you know about his network." He dropped the day planner and moved to a clean white board, turning his back on the agents. Charlie patted his pockets, finally found another Dry Erase marker behind an ear, and started again, illustrating on the board as he spoke. "A network is a system of nodes – or in this case, people – connected by links. The nodes have a tendency to divide into groups, or communities. A University of Michigan professor designed an algorithim to analyze these groups. We can then better understand the structure and function of the network."

"Basically, you're finding out what all of these people have in common," Colby simplified.

Charlie dropped the marker in the tray and turned back toward the agents. "Well, yes," he finally agreed. "I guess that's what it comes down to. But I'm sure you've already done that. This technique is faster and more accurate than other methods for detecting groupings. It adds a new element to the analysis: It weighs how tightly members are bound to their groups…" Charlie could see he was losing them, again. He ran his hand through his hair, and thought. "Okay," he finally said. "This is a way past what you see on the surface of the day planner. Each name that you come up with needs a great deal of information attached to it. Is this person in a civic group? Does she volunteer somewhere? What sort of employment does he have? Who does she choose to pay for Internet service? Does he go to church, and if so, where? Does he have a blog?"

"You're kidding." Don was finally making himself heard. "A blog about some guy's weird dreams is going to tell us whether or not this murder was politically motivated."

Charlie looked at his brother. "It might, yes. Individuals often are less than honest about their political affiliations, as I'm sure you know, or I wouldn't even be here. An algorithm doesn't recognize lies; only truth. Ask enough questions, and you will find at least one thing that most of the names in this day planner have in common – other than the victim, of course. Once you have located the common demominators, we can use the algorithm to sort through the network's links, and they should divide cleanly into conservative and liberal camps. It will also show the commitment level of your victim to one of those camps."

"Or," Megan pointed out, "it may show that he was not partial to either side."

Charlie expanded on her thought. "That would indicate that your victim and his network were politically moderate. A definitive community will be defined within the network. That knowledge in and of itself would move your investigation into other areas, since you know already what link you are looking for, politically…" he smiled, "…and it's not a politically moderate one."

Colby leaned forward a little, elbows on the table. "That being said, if this algorithm determines a politically liberal community, we're also on the wrong track. The organization we're looking at is off-the-charts conservative."

Don stood, signaling the other agents to do the same. "Not necessarily," he pointed out. "Maybe the opposite. If it shows a politically liberal bent, that might make him a target of this conservative group." He leaned to gather up his papers and coffee cup and gave his brother a dirty look. "Thanks a lot, Charlie. Your genius managed to make our workload heavier."

Charlie reddened in embarrassment and the others either ignored him or tried to smile in support as they left the room. Only Megan took the time to come close enough to lay a comforting hand on his arm. "He _does_ appreciate your work," she assured him. "We all do, you know that. We're a full team understaffed right now, and everybody's tired."

Charlie tried to smile and approached the table again quickly. He began to gather his own things, looking down so she wouldn't see the hurt in his eyes. "It's all right," he answered. "I understand." Slinging his backpack over one shoulder and clasping his laptop under his arm, Charlie accompanied Megan to the door of the conference room, where they would part ways. She would return to her desk, and Charlie would head for the elevator. In the doorway, he paused and looked at her, a little frown of worry showing on his face. "Please use extra caution, Megan. If you're all tired, the whole team needs to be more careful than usual. The odds…"

She smiled and interrupted him. "Please don't tell me the odds of getting hurt in this job, Charlie. I promise you, we'll be extra alert. Some things, I'd rather not know."

Charlie nodded with a silent half-smile, and leaned to kiss Megan on the cheek, surprising her speechless. Physical affection was not foreign territory between the two of them – especially since she had started dating Larry – but it was unusual of Charlie to be so demonstrative in the FBI office. She leaned against the door, watching him stride toward the elevator, and tried to ignore a twinge of apprehension.


	3. That Can't Happen

**Title: Permanent Consequences**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Chapter 3: That Can't Happen**

**Timeline: Still Eight Months Earlier…**

It took two days of overtime for the team to come up with all the data Charlie wanted, and two more days for him to do whatever he did with it. When he finally brought everything back four days later, at almost 8 p.m., he involuntarily winced at the exhaustion on all the faces. Charlie hadn't been home since breakfast either, and was feeling properly sorry for himself – until he saw Colby sleeping at his desk, David putting an aspirin bottle back in a drawer, Megan yawning widely – and Don glaring at him.

His brother shot one hand out and kept writing with the other. "Took you long enough," he barked. "What've you got?"

Charlie was a little affronted by Don's tone, but he smiled wanly and tried to lighten the mood. "I don't think one hand is going to do it, Bro. I've got two boxes of stuff in the car."

Don groaned and aimed his glare at Colby. "Granger! Wake up! You and David go down to his car and bring the boxes back inside. Charlie, tell them where you're parked, give them the keys and sit your ass down. Give me your final answer. Don't phone a friend. Don't ask the audience. And DO NOT make me tell you this again."

Charlie could tell from the sour look on Colby's face – which had a paper clip stuck to it – that this was not unusual behavior. Megan's sudden dedication to her report was also telling, and Charlie did as he had been instructed as quickly as possible. He did not have good news for Don, and he certainly didn't want to make it worse.

There were no visitor's chairs in sight, so Charlie sat gingerly on the corner of Don's desk and laid down the computer print-out he had been carrying so that they both could see it. "I'm a little surprised by the results," he began.

Don snatched up the paper and started reading. "Cut to the chase, Charlie."

Charlie cleared his throat. "The pattern I was expecting didn't emerge…"

"Great," answered Don, rubbing his hand over his eyes and dropping the paper back on the desk. "Now you're going to tell me he's an anomaly. We don't know any more now than we did four days ago, and we've wasted valuable time!"

Megan had screwed up her courage and come to join them, arriving at the end of his tirade. "We appreciate your work, Charlie," she said loudly. "If the algorithm didn't work, it didn't work. I know you did your best."

Don sighed and looked a little guilty. "Of course. That goes without saying. I'm just frustrated."

Megan decided to push her luck. "Have you ever noticed that most of the things that 'go without saying' are things that should probably be said?"

Don took a moment to breathe. Then he looked up at Charlie. "I'm sorry," he said. "She's right. This isn't your fault."

Charlie stood, speaking rapidly to get it all out before Don pulled another Jeckyl and Hyde. He gestured with his hands. "It's all right, guys, really. I'm just sorry you're in such a difficult place right now. Are you sure that was your victim's day planner?"

Don tried to be patient, he really did. "Charlie…just give it up. Your algorithms can't work every time."

"No, no," Charlie insisted. "This isn't even my algorithm, I told you…. Anyway, it has a success rate of 97 percent. It's highly unlikely that it would not detect his political community at all."

Megan was tired. She thought Don had been a little rough on Charlie, but she didn't have one of his long-winded explanations in her, either. "Charlie," she said gently, "we recovered it from his home. It has his name in it. It's his day planner."

Charlie could see they were both dead on their feet – or butt, in Don's case – yet still he went on. "But according to your profile, the victim was an accountant, with additional degrees in computer programming and a heavy interest in the sciences. This day planner is too…perfect. It's as if it was written specifically to elude the kind of pattern I've been attempting to establish."

Don perked up a little, and stood to stretch. He arched his sore back and looked at Charlie. "Are you suggesting it's a dummy? Like a second set of books to cover up financial fraud?"

Charlie nodded vigorously and smiled. "Exactly. I think this day planner was planted for you – or someone – to find. I think there's another one. Or a diary, or journal, or something."

Megan frowned. "You saw everything we catalogued from the vic's house. I don't remember anything like that."

"What about his office?", Charlie suggested.

Don stretched his arms out in front of him, pulled them back and jammed them into his pocket. "We had to wait for a search warrant. He had a partner, and he refused to let us in. Wouldn't talk to us, either." He snorted and shook his head, obviously disgusted. "We had to make an appointment to interview him. At least the warrant finally came through. Megan and I are taking it over tonight when we meet with him."

"_And_ his attorney," Megan added drily.

"This late?"

Don shrugged. "What's time, anymore?"

Charlie shifted from one foot to the other. "Let me go with you."

Don hung his head and rubbed the back of his neck. "Charlie, you can't go with us on an interview."

"I won't listen," he promised, sounding like a 10-year-old. "I won't touch anything. I just want to look around at some of the most likely places he would keep his genuine documentation. I'm a paid consultant, I can be along on the search."

Don turned to grab his jacket off the back of his chair. "Charlie, just do your own job and let us do ours. If we find something, we'll try this algorithm again, with a new set of data."

The prospect of having to start all over effectively rooted him to the floor, and Charlie kept sawing away at Don's very last nerve. "Don, you're all exhausted. As another scientist, I may be able to think in the same mindset as he did, and I could cut hours off your search. Much of the data is probably the same, just organized differently. If we find it tonight, I can work on it tonight. Please, I know this is important, and I want to help."

Don looked at Megan, who gave her "it's your call" shrug. Confronted with Charlie's eagerness and his own exhaustion, he found it too draining to continue the argument. It was only an interview. He couldn't even summon the strength to speak. He just nodded briefly, and led the way to the elevator.

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	4. The Consequences Begin

**Title: Permanent Consequences**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Chapter 4: The Consequences Begin**

**Timeline: Still Eight Months Earlier…**

Don wasn't even watching Charlie when it happened.

He and Megan sat opposite the victim's partner and his attorney at a large conference table in an opulent corner office high in a professional building. The view through the glass walls was stunning. When they had arrived and been ushered in, Don remembered thinking that these guys did pretty well, for accountants.

Charlie, with strict orders not to interrupt or touch anything, was methodically pacing the perimeter of the room. In his loopy state, the sight reminded Don of Dustin Hoffman in _Rainman_, and he had a sudden urge to throw a box of toothpicks on the floor and see how fast Charlie could count them. Before he could start giggling uncontrollably and torpedo his status as a federal agent, he stopped looking at Charlie. He even shifted a little in his chair so that he wouldn't even see him out of the corner of his eye.

So, he wasn't watching him when the bullet that would change both of their lives forever shattered the glass. It was an unmistakable sound, and the agents' reactions were ingrained, and swift. "EVERYBODY DOWN!" yelled Don, leaping from his chair and rounding the table in a crouch. He grabbed ahold of one of the stunned men and shoved him roughly under the table. "TAKE COVER!"

Megan had dragged the other man under the table as well, and was busy arranging chairs in a barricade around them. When she was finished, she crawled over toward Don, gun drawn. The Team Leader crouched protectively over the attorney, another chair partially blocking them from the window. "Are you hit?", she whispered.

Don looked behind him at the attorney, who silently shook his head. Or maybe it was just that everything was shaking on the man. Don gripped his own weapon more tightly, "No," he answered. "I don't think so. You?"

Megan shook her head and peered out between the chairs. "No other shots."

Don hesitated. "We're not even wearing vests, this is a Code Red situa…" He suddenly paled and she thought he had been hit after all.

"What?", she asked, concerned.

His voice was barely a whisper. "Where the hell is Charlie?"

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When the high velocity round ripped into his side and lodged in his spinal cord, Charlie didn't realize what had happened. He thought there must be an earthquake, and the shattering glass wall had sent shards into his body. He thought that because it was true, and he could feel the cuts on his face, and his arms. The one in his side hurt the worst; it must be large. Numbly, already shocky, he reached a hand up to remove it, and couldn't make sense of the sticky mess he found. The pain was growing worse, making it difficult to see, impossible to breathe. Just before he lost consciousness, Charlie had the presence of mind to be grateful that at least his legs seemed all right.

They didn't hurt at all.

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**TIMELINE CHANGE: Back to Present Day**

Don had entered the front door of the Craftsman because he could see that no-one had picked up the mail, yet. He dropped the bundle on the small table in the vestibule and called out. "Dad? Charlie?"

He didn't get an answer, so he wandered into the kitchen and thought about getting a beer. He even opened the refrigerator. Then he remembered that alcohol was a depressant, and it also tended to loosen his tongue. He could do without more depression, and the last thing he wanted was to slip up and say something he would regret later. He just wanted to put in an appearance, because Charlie had asked him to, pretend to eat, and go home.

He closed the refrigerator door and moved to the oven. Through the glass door his suspuscions were confirmed. His Dad's lasagna was definitely in there, and a loaf of garlic bread waited on top of the stove for its turn. His stomach lurched a little, and Don thought he might be able to do more than pretend, tonight. It probably wasn't a coincidence that his favorite meal was in the works, though, and that made him feel…something. He wasn't sure quite what. Anger? Frustration? Needy?

Unable to come up with just the right label, Don't next stop was the kitchen window. He took one look out to the back yard and nearly had a heart attack. Charlie was sitting in his chair, out at the koi pond, using the long-handled skimmer to clean the water.

Don was out the door and halfway across the lawn in what must have been one giant leap for mankind. "HEY!", he yelled, running for Charlie, "Get back! Watch out!" Within seconds he was there. Breathing hard he pushed forcefully on Charlie's shoulders, settling him hard back into the chair. Then he placed a hand on each side of the chair and pushed it back a few feet farther away from the water. Don straightened, his face red and contorted in fury and fear. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Charlie had hit the back of the chair with an _"Oomph",_ and the pond skimmer fell out of his startled hands. It floated now on the surface of the water, and he yelled right back at Don. "I'm cleaning the pond, what does it LOOK like I'm doing?" He looked dismally toward the skimmer, which was out of reach in the middle of the koi pond by now.

Alan had come down the stairs when Don was just getting to the window, and he had heard the door slamming and the panicked screaming. Terrified, he was just a few feet behind him. He huffed up to his sons, out of breath. "What? What is it? What's wrong?"

Don couldn't seem to lower the volume of his voice. "Dammit, Dad, if you don't have time for the koi pond, tell me! I'll come over and do it! Charlie was out here trying to drown himself, or something!"

Alan took in the skimmer in the pond and exchanged a glance with Charlie. "I'll go get the other one," he said. "We can fish it out with that." Ignoring Don completely, he headed toward the garage.

Don felt terrible about yelling at his father that way. It wasn't his fault that his genius son was an idiot. He would apologize to the man later. Right now, he was still seething at Charlie. "Why do you insist on doing these things?", he asked, running a hand through his hair. "If Dad doesn't have time, I'll take care of it. You just need to let me know."

Charlie lifted a hand to push back his own hair, and Don was mesmerized by a long, thin scar on his forearm. He was still staring at it when his brother began to speak. "Don, the koi pond is my responsibility, and I can do this. I've been doing it for a couple of months."

"Dammit," Don muttered again. He should have thought to ask about this a long time ago. "Dad lets you do this?"

Charlie sighed. "Don, sit down or something. My neck hurts looking up all the time." Don immediately sat down on the grass, even though the bench was only a few feet away. Charlie's expressive eyes darkened as he regarded him. "That's exactly the problem," he observed.

Don frowned. "What problem?"

Charlie gestured at him. "You. You can't deal with me, you can't accept that I'm all right. You take everything too literally. I say 'sit down', and you fall on the grass. If I say I have a headache, you call a neurologist. Dad 'lets' me do this, Don, because he knows that I can. Sure, the first couple of times he was out here with me, but he understands. I can do a lot of things, Don; most of what I could do before. I just have to do them differently, now."

Don scowled at the grass. "I only called the neurologist once, and you had only been home from rehab for two days."

Charlie snorted, then spoke tenderly. "Donnie, you know this wasn't your…"

Don stood up again quickly and brushed the grass off of his jeans. "Don't say that. Of course it was my fault. It was my call to let you come with us on the interview." He was starting to sound angry, again. "You can forgive me all you want, Charlie, but you cannot absolve me. It will always be my fault."

Charlie looked up at Don in slight shock. His brother had never really shared how he felt about the shooting in words, before. He shaded his eyes from the setting sun. "It was a judgement call. You were exhausted, and I was persistent…. You did the best you could under the circumstances. What more can you ask of yourself?"

Don shook his head. He could see Alan heading back with the other pond skimmer, so he turned to go back toward the house without answering. After a few steps he looked back at Charlie. "Need help?" His voice was gruff, and the two syllables seemed to cost him something he was not willing to give up. His face was impassive, set in stone.

Charlie suddenly wanted to cry. He wished he could run after him. He wished he could make him understand. "I'm okay," he finally said softly.

Don turned again and walked silently and heavily into the house.


	5. Bend, Before You Break

**Title: Permanent Consequences**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Chapter 5: Bend, Before You Break**

_**Timeline: Present Day (Dinner, continued)**_

In the kitchen of the Craftsman again, Don had no problem this time deciding to get that beer. He refused to watch the activity at the koi pond out of the window, and sat instead at the table. He left the door slightly ajar, however, just in case his dad started yelling for help.

Don had finished his beer and was contemplating getting another one. It was close to dark, now, and the light needed to be turned on anyway. As if his musings were magic, they flared on, and he squinted in the sudden brightness. He heard the door shut then, and Alan walked quietly by the table. He checked the timer on the stove, opened the oven door and placed the bagged garlic bread next to the casserole dish of lasagna. Closing the door, he crossed to the refrigerator and removed several items for a green salad – and one beer. He placed green onions, tomatoes, an avocado and a bag of pre-shredded carrots at his place at the kitchen table. Before he sat down, he moved behind Don to the counter, to grab a cutting board and a knife. On the way, he casually replaced Don's empty bottle with a full one. "How was your day?", he asked, neutrally.

Don knew he probably shouldn't say anything, but he was getting nervous. "Where's Charlie? It's too dark for him to be working on the koi pond. It's not safe."

Alan came back to the table with his tools, and took a seat. He looked at Don levelly. "He's just at the bottom of the ramp. He'll be up soon. He needed some time; he's a little…upset."

Don almost choked on the beer and lowered it quickly to the table. "Did I hurt him?", he demanded, half standing.

"Yes," answered Alan frankly. At Don's stricken look, he went on. "But not the way you think; not physically. He doesn't know how to help you, Don; neither do I. Trust me, my son, that can be painful."

Don finished standing, leaving the beer on the table. "I'm not the one who needs help," he said stoically. "I can still walk."

He started to prove his point, and Alan pointed a green onion at him. "Please don't leave, if that's what you have in mind. Charlie was so excited that you were coming over for dinner. He's the one who suggested we have your favorites; he made the garlic butter for the bread, and helped with the lasagna…" Don wavered where he stood. He didn't want to hurt Charlie – again. All he did these days was hurt Charlie. Alan continued, his tone friendly. "Do something useful. Grab the other cutting board and chop the tomatoes."

It was amazing how the simple suggestion settled things for Don. It was also deceptive, he found out, when he was seated again, chopping. Alan finished with the green onions and picked up the avocado. "He's worked very hard," he observed. "Sometimes I don't think you know how hard."

Don scowled at the tomato and pushed the knife in harder than was necessary. "Dad, I said I would take time off to help take him to therapy appointments. I can still do that, if you need me. I can hardly be expected to know every move he makes when I'm not there. Besides, I understand that he's worked hard."

Alan peeled the avocado slowly, studying it and not his son. "Do you? When you do things like that incident at the koi pond, he feels as if it hasn't even been worth the effort. He feels that you'll always see him as a cripple, as less than enough."

Don squeezed what remained of the tomato and juice dripped onto the table. His father was killing him, and he had to make it stop. "Don't put words in his mouth!", he ordered. "I thought you were a major champion of his strength, anyway."

His voice ended on a sarcastic tone, and Alan gazed sadly over the avocado. "I didn't put those words in his mouth," he answered. "Those are his words. I'm just repeating what he said to me outside."

Don was stunned silent at that revelation. He could hear the clock on the kitchen wall ticking, Charlie rolling up the ramp to the kitchen door, and his own heart. He wasn't sure he heard it beating. He thought, maybe, that was the sound it made when it broke.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Apparently, Alan had made too much dinner.

Obviously, he should have stuck an entrée from Lean Cuisine in the microwave for himself and called it good, since neither one of his sons was eating.

Most assuredly, there was not enough wine in the world to convince him to put up with this any longer. After gulping his glass dry, he banged it on the dining room table so hard he almost broke it, and both of his sons looked up at him in shock. "This is ridiculous," he fumed at them. "What kind of family dinner is this? Don, if you're not careful you'll end up unconscious at a crime scene again. And Charlie, you know how important it is that you eat properly, now. You're more susceptible to illness, and infections."

His youngest son dropped his eyes and half-heartedly speared a zucchini in the lasagna on his plate. "I'm eating," he mumbled.

Don had thought he couldn't feel any worse, but he was wrong. Now it would be his fault if his brother fell into a depression and made himself sick. "Charlie, I'm…"

The words died on his tongue when Charlie's dark eyes flashed as him angrily. "Don't you dare tell me you're sorry," he spat. "If you say 'I'm sorry' to me one more time, I swear to God, Don, you will find out just how impressive my upper body strength is, now."

Don swallowed, and looked uncertainly at his father, to see if any support was coming from that corner. Nope. Alan was watching them as if he was at a world class tennis match. Don could see he was on his own. He looked back at Charlie, too tired, his reserves too melted by beer, to come up with an appropriate lie. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do," he admitted. Even to his own ears, he sounded pathetic. "How can I make it better? How can I change what happened?"

Charlie slowly lowered his fork and gazed at him steadily. "I told you what I wanted, Don. You refused to discuss it." Don started to shake his head, and Charlie pushed ahead. "You can't change the past, Don. Most days, I can live with that; in fact, I think I'm doing pretty well with that. Sitting in this chair does not define who I am. What I can't understand is why you want to take my future."

It was Don's turn to look a little shell-shocked, and he turned to Alan again. "Do you know what he wants to do? Has he told you that he wants to consult for the Bureau, again?"

Alan's own heart was heavy. It struck him as odd that despite what Charlie had endured this year, it was Don who concerned him the most. "Last time I checked," he said softly, "Charlie's brain was as outrageous as it's always been. If he could help you before, he can help you now."

Don, still looking at Alan instead of Charlie, protested. "How can you say that? I'm not questioning his ability to help us. But it's not safe; _I'm_ not safe! What if I make the wrong decision again, and next time I get him killed?"

Alan's eyes held his, and the compassion in them, his soft answer, caressed his son's tortured soul. "Oh, Donnie. Please, son. You have to move beyond this. You're making yourself sick over something that can't be changed; something that WAS NOT your fault in the first place, no matter how much you have convinced yourself that is was. Don't you see that your guilt does not protect Charlie? It doesn't help him; it paralyzes him more surely and more completely than any bullet."

Don blinked back tears and lowered his gaze to his plate. As God was his witness, he didn't know anymore what was right, and what was wrong. All he knew for sure was that this way, everybody was unhappy. Letting Charlie consult again went against every ounce of instinct that he had. He contemplated his bread, and admitted to himself that he didn't trust his guts anymore, anyway.

He sighed as if what he was about to do caused him great pain. Then he looked up. As expected, Charlie was staring right at him. Don sighed again. "Just…just today," he started, his voice catching. He paused, took a quick drink of water and tried again. "Just today, Colby was whining about this financial case we're working…"


	6. Selective Memory

**Title: Permanent Consequences**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Chapter 6: Selective Memory**

**_Timeline: Backstory, continued_**

As it was happening, Don was sure that it was all being engraved on his soul.

For as long as he lived, he was sure, he would remember every millisecond that it took him to reach Charlie; every drop of blood that formed a pool around his brother and splattered a pattern that Charlie could have found some deep meaning in; every time his frantic eyes saw Charlie's chest rise and fall. He was certain that he had become the moments he lived through – and yet, he kept losing time.

When he thought about it later – and he thought about it a lot – he could not remember talking to Megan and sending her after his father. He had no recollection of riding in the ambulance with Charlie. In fact, he wasn't even sure how they _got_ to the ambulance. Hadn't the interview been in a high-rise, weren't they 28 stories high when it happened?

His mind was a total blank, later, for an indeterminate amount of time. He didn't even remember Megan arriving at the hospital with Alan. His next clear memory, after studying the blood spatter on the fake ficus plant, was of smelling his father's aftershave and feeling his father's arms around him. Don was stunned to discover that he was crying. Leaning into Alan, and sobbing.

By the time others began to appear in the hospital waiting room -- Millie, summoned by Megan, Colby and David – Don had calmed enough to be embarrassed that he was such a poor witness. As Colby and David gently questioned their two team members, Don found that he had very little to say. As Megan provided most of the details, he couldn't even agree with her, in good conscience, since he couldn't remember. He was the worst witness he had ever encountered, in all his years of police work. The thought terrified and amazed him.

Amita had rushed in, disheveled and obviously pulled out of bed, before Don really got a grip on the fact that it was almost midnight. He looked over her shoulder at the clock on the wall, stunned. How had that happened?

Don, who had made it his business for as long as he could remember to be the token "strong one" in the family, found himself unable to let go of his father's hand. When a trauma attending finally appeared and told them that emergency surgery was necessary despite Charlie's shock, Don stared at him and heard himself say, in genuine confusion, "He's in shock?"

The circle of friends and family had studied each other and the floor, and now the doctor was confused. "I'm sorry? Aren't you the one who came in with him?"

Alan had at some point retrieved his hand from Don – he couldn't remember that happening, either -- and now he snuck an arm around his shoulders and squeezed. "Please, go on."

With another look at Don, the doctor had started using phrases such as "thoracic vertebrae," "bone fragments", "major organs", "incomplete" and "T10". Don was lost before he even started. Not wanting to cause any more trouble, he nodded politely and waited for the man to leave. When he did, he turned to ask his father what he had said, and was shocked to see Amita standing on the other side, crying.

Alan spoke to her quietly, and Don moved a little closer to hear. "He's alive, sweetheart, just be thankful for that. You heard the doctor, it's amazing that the bullet didn't do any major damage to his vital organs. The surgery is still risky, because of the shock. Let's pray that the surgeon is able to remove it from the spinal tissue."

She jerked away from his touch and wailed loudly enough that others in the waiting room looked at them. "Why? He still won't be able to walk! He'll still be paralyzed, probably permanently!" Megan had started to reach for her then, but Amita took off in a dead run down the hall.

And Don had half-fallen, half been dragged by Colby, to a chair, where he closed his eyes and tried to remember something. Anything.

Most especially, the part where the doctor had said Charlie was paralyzed.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Less than two weeks after Charlie had been shot and condemned to life in a chair, doctors had convinced Alan that "aggressive rehabilitation" was in his best interest, and arranged a med-flight to a spinal trauma center in New Hampshire.

During that time, Don had started to remember things again – although he never got back the first few hours, and now he wished he _couldn't_ remember the last several days. He would lie in his bed at night, staring at the ceiling, and remember the look on Charlie's face when he finally came out of the anesthesia enough to understand that he could not feel his legs.

He would blink, and a new scene would appear. He would witness again the shock and dismay of well-meaning visitors. He would observe Charlie staring wistfully at the door, wishing Amita would do more than call occasionally, his face silently saying that he didn't deserve any better, anyway. He would count how many new lines he could see on Alan's face. He would continue to blink, and change the scenery, until exhaustion would pull him under. Or, more often, until it was time to get up again, and go to work.

When Colby told him, the day before Charlie left for New Hampshire, that the case had finally been solved, thanks to data discovered through Charlie's work so long ago…Don congratulated him and walked away, and discovered that he couldn't care less.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Charlie had been in New Hampshire almost five months. When he had been there a few weeks, he began to really face what he had lost, and fell into a deep depression. One of the things he had lost had turned out to be Amita. She was unable -- or unwilling -- to commit to a man who would always be in a wheelchair. Charlie began to refuse telephone calls from anyone, and when he began refusing food, the center's medical director had called Alan.

Within days, he had relocated to New Hampshire. The rehab program was an inpatient one, but Alan rented a small apartment close to the center, so that he could be as close as possible. Concerned as he was about Charlie's depression, he was actually kind-of happy that there was a legitimate reason to move temporarily across the country. It was what he had wanted to do all the time, but Charlie had insisted that it was unnecessary.

Having Alan's unique blend of "Jewish Mother" and Tough Love had definitely made the transition easier for his son. Although he was completely prepared to stay for the duration of the program, Alan had only been there a few months when he was summoned home by Megan, after Don's incident at the crime scene.

By the time he got there, Don was out of the hospital, remanded to psychiatric counseling, on administrative leave – and pissed. Alan's presence had helped Charlie, but he couldn't seem to reach Donnie. He watched with increasing frustration as his oldest son did what he had to clear Bureau hurdles, and grew more detached. During a call to Charlie one evening, Alan found out that Don called him even less than Amita, and Alan knew her contact was practically non-existant the last few months. He had stormed over to his son's apartment, bearing Matzah-ball soup, determined to confront him about that, but found he didn't have to.

All he had to do was look Don in the eye, to see the guilt he felt.

So instead of demanding that he phone his brother, Alan had heated up the soup, tucked Don into bed and tidied up the apartment. His heart was heavy by the time he left. He wished he could fix both of his sons. But he was afraid that for both, the damage was permanent.


	7. That Didn't Go Too Well, Now, Did It?

**Title: Permanent Consequences**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Chapter 7: That Didn't Go Too Well, Now, Did It?**

**_Timeline: Present Day_**

Don tried not to stand up, cross the room, and slug Colby in the mouth.

Granger was never enthusiastic about Charlie's presentations, he reminded himself. Oh, he had become among the first to ask for a "Whiz Kid" consultation, but he was impatient, and just wanted to get straight to the bust. He rolled his eyes and made sarcastic comments all the time. So it didn't necessarily mean anything that the agent was obviously not paying attention now. He wasn't even looking at the presentation screen, but twirling his pencil in his fingers, staring at the table.

Still, Charlie had worked hard, Don was sure. For one thing, Charlie always worked hard. For another, everything was hard work, from where he stood.

Correction. Sat.

"Granger!" Don had found that so much of his attention was on Colby, he didn't have any idea what Charlie just said himself. "Tell me what Charlie just said." He wore his serious, Team Leader Face, so that Colby would think this was a test for him, and not an admission on Don's part.

Colby looked up from the table quickly and guiltily. He shot a look at Charlie, swallowed, and looked at Don. "Something about…patterns?"

David and Megan looked only at each other, unwilling to risk looking at either of the other two team members. _Everything_ Charlie said was about patterns. Even Colby should have had a better answer than that!

Don stood up. "Look, Charlie is here at _your_ request. It's not a simple thing for him anymore, you know. He can't pop in and out of here at the drop of a hat. The least you can do is pay attention!" Don was honestly angry. Angry at Colby for zoning out. Angry at his father and Charlie for backing him into a corner. Angry at himself for…walking.

"Don." From the tone of his voice, Charlie wasn't too happy either. The stony expression on his face, when Don looked at him, confirmed that. "I can take care of myself. Leave Colby alone."

Don lashed out at him, then. "This is _my_ team, Charlie, and if one of them needs to be reprimanded or disciplined, I'll do it! Granger wouldn't get away with treating any other consultant this way, and he knows it. No other consultant would stick his nose into internal discipline, either. I knew this was a bad idea!"

Complete silence sucked all the air out of the room. Megan stole a glance at Charlie, who stared up at Don in semi-shock. Anger, hurt, embarrassment and grief passed over his face before it froze in an unreadable state. Slowly, he looked away. Meticulously, he shut down the program he was running, disconnected his laptop from the projection system, and closed the machine. "Perhaps…." He stopped, and cleared his throat. "I can see that you're correct. This won't work out." He placed his laptop on – well, on his lap top, not bothering to reach for the pack on the back of his chair, which he backed away from the table. He looked apologetically and specifically at Colby, then David, and finally Megan. "I'm very sorry," he said, softly. "I'll be happy to recommend someone else who can help you."

Don was still standing, between Charlie and the door, and as his brother drew closer he drew a hand through his cropped hair in frustration. "Listen, Charlie, I'm…"

Again, as he had the night before at the koi pond, Charlie cut him off, his voice steel. He stared at Don's knees. "Do NOT tell me you're 'sorry'," he almost hissed. "Just get the hell out of the way."

Don didn't move until Charlie started to wheel around him, when he finally took a step back and watched his brother's jerky progress out the door and down the hall. Charlie had gained superiority over the chair long ago; he must be wheeling blind, veering all over the corridor like that.

Megan materialized at Don's elbow. "You were pretty hard on him," she accused.

"Don't," Don spat between gritted teeth. "Just don't." Then he walked through the same door Charlie had used, but turned the other way.

He didn't even know where he was going.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

By the time Alan had left Charlie in New Hampshire to come back home to Don, he had learned enough to understand that something would have to be done to the house. Just before he had been called back, they had briefly discussed adding a chair lift to the staircase, but Charlie had been against that. He said it would ruin the historical look of the house. Alan knew that was true, and since Charlie owned the house now, it was his call, but he also wondered if his son was just not ready to see such a constant reminder of his limitations on such a regular basis.

When he called Charlie to assure him that Don was all right – even though he wasn't entirely convinced of that himself – his youngest son had agreed to let him remodel the back of the house before he came home. There was already a tiny bathroom on the ground floor, and Alan drew some plans up himself and used a decent contractor he had worked with before. The remodel fit the original flavor of the house as perfectly as it could. The bathroom was enlarged and made handicapped-accessible, and a large room was added on to serve as Charlie's bedroom. While he was at it, Alan added ramps to the front and back doors, and wide concrete pathways to the garage, and the koi pond beyond that. He spent hours landscaping around them carefully, to soften their harsh appearance. While Don was on administrative leave, he would come over and help, silent and brooding.

It was in the new bedroom where Alan found Charlie that afternoon. Physical and occupational therapists said that Charlie could learn to drive a car specially equipped with hand controls, but now, Alan was still providing most of his transportation. He had dropped Charlie off at the FBI offices and gone back to pick him up later, after he ran some errands. He was disheartened to learn from Megan of the aborted return to consulting, and of the fact that no-one had seen Don in hours. For a while, Alan wasn't sure who to look for first. No-one answered his cell phone. Finally, worry over Charlie's physical challenges won out, and he headed home.

He stood now in the wide doorway to Charlie's room. His son sat before the large window, looking toward the koi pond. "How did you get home?", he inquired gently.

"One of those wheelchair taxi-vans." The reply was muffled as Charlie wheeled himself around to face his father. "I miss my old room," he stated, and Alan looked at him in dismay. Charlie had never said that before. He had only complimented Alan for doing such a fine job with the remodel.

"I tried to set this one up in the same way," he offered. "I even painted it the same color."

Charlie quickly brushed the back of a hand over one eye, making Alan feel worse. "It's not that I don't like this room, or appreciate your attention to detail. I miss the view. The tree right outside the window that I used to climb down sometimes just to get Mom all worried and upset. Looking _down_ on the koi pond, and not just _over_ at it." He sighed, a sound full of heartbreak and woe that nearly did Alan in. "I don't look down on anything, anymore. Everything…everyone…looks down on me."

Before he fell down, Alan crossed to sit on the edge of the bed, a few feet from Charlie. He looked him in the eye. "That's not true. Don't let a misunderstanding with your brother drag you under. Charlie…son, I could not look up to any man more than I do you. I admire you, and I'm proud of you." Charlie didn't quite manage a smile, but his eyes, as always, spoke volumes. Alan grinned a little. "As soon as Don gets his head out his ass, he will see more clearly."

Charlie emitted a tiny snort of laughter at that, and wheeled a little closer to his father. He leaned precariously out of the chair and took Alan in his arms. "Thanks, Dad," he whispered into his ear, and Alan wrapped his arms around his baby and squeezed hard.

He was never letting go.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

**(A/N: I don't know about you, but I cried like a little girl when I wrote this.)**


	8. A Light Bulb Goes On

**Title: Permanent Consequences**

**Author: FraidyCat**

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

**Chapter 8: A Light Bulb Goes On**

**TIMELINE: Present Day**

Don had been driving around Los Angeles for almost an hour before it occurred to him that Charlie probably didn't have a ride home. Immediately his anger dissipated and was replaced by guilt, which settled into his chest with a familiar _thunk_.

When he had stormed out of the office and landed in the parking garage, he automatically got in the SUV and started driving. He had called David on his cell — David was the least likely to push any of his buttons, right now — and informed him brusquely that he wouldn't be back that afternoon. Call it a personal day. Let them assume he had another appointment with his therapist. Don almost wished he did.

He told David to call in one of their other financial consultants and start all over. Then he ran a red light, almost taking out a Saturn, and fumed. What was Charlie trying to do to him? Why had he _insisted_ on trying to come back? And of course, their father had come down on Charlie's side. He always had, and he always would. Neither one of them listened to reason, and neither one of them cared how monumentally _angry_ Don was right now. You'd think they'd be more circumspect; they were always saying they worried about his job, and then they did this to him. Why couldn't they understand that he was just trying to protect his brother?

He successfully fought off all attempts his sub-conscious made to tell him he was full of it, until he got to that last part.

_If you're so concerned about Charlie_, he heard, as clearly as if someone was sitting next to him, _why the hell didn't you at least give him a ride home? He's paralyzed because of you, and now he's probably trying to roll to Pasadena._

Don's heart rate increased as he risked running another red light and hit the speed dial for Charlie's phone. He threw his own cell across the SUV when the call went to voice mail, and he turned around as soon as he could. He had been driving around aimlessly, but once he figured out where he was, he took the most direct route he could back to the office. He was pretty sure he'd be able to spot a man in a wheelchair jerking down the sidewalk, dark curly head bobbing in unhappiness, if Charlie really tried something that insane.

By the time he arrived back at the Bureau, Don was relieved that he hadn't seen Charlie, at the same time that he was scared shitless that he hadn't seen Charlie. He didn't bother with the parking garage, but left the SUV on the street almost a block away from the building and headed for the front entrance. He would go upstairs to the bullpen and find out if one of the team had given Charlie a ride home.

The last person he expected to see, as he jogged up the sidewalk, was Amita. Yet when a couple of agents veered off to the right, and his path suddenly cleared a little -- there she was, just a few feet ahead of him. His anger surged again and he growled. "What the hell are _you_ doing here?"

Recognizing his voice, she stopped walking and turned slowly. She waited a few seconds for him to get closer, then spoke a little nervously. "D-Don. Colby called me and asked if I could stop by after my last class. Apparently he has something he wants me to work on?"

Don's face darkened. He had told them to call another consultant, but he never thought it would be Amita. Sure, she had worked a few cases on her own, and several with Charlie, but…but…. "This just isn't right," he mumbled. He had no idea how Charlie could be on campus even part-time with a woman who had left him as soon as he wasn't perfect. He was having a hard time imagining how he could be in the same building, and he turned his back on her and walked a few feet to one of the benches in front of the Bureau, where his knees buckled and he sagged onto the seat. He felt for his cell phone. He didn't know why he hadn't thought of just calling someone and asking about Charlie earlier. He cursed softly when he remembered that his cell was on the passenger-side floorboard of the SUV.

He felt another weight settle on the bench and turned his head to see Amita, who was perched as far away as she could get. He looked away again rapidly, not believing her gall. He had almost worked his way all the way back up the anger scale when she finally spoke. "I'm not sure why, but I want you to understand. I don't care what you think of me. I deserve it. Charlie's paralyzed because of me, and I can't get around that. I can't look…down on him, in that chair, and live with what I've done. He doesn't understand that, so I had to hurt him even worse. I told him I'm not ready to live forever with someone in a wheelchair. I'm already interviewing at other schools. I'll leave CalSci before the next school year."

Don didn't know _what_ he had been expecting, but it sure as hell wasn't that little speech. His head swiveled and his mouth gaped. "_Your_ fault? What are you talking about?"

Her eyes were moist, but no tears dropped. Her voice did shake a little as she answered, though. "He asked me for help, that week. I knew Larry was still on the space shuttle, and Millie had the flu…but it was my first year teaching full-time. I was overwhelmed with upcoming finals and I said no. Even though I also knew finals were coming up for him too, and I saw how much data Colby had left in the office…" She sniffed once, and gazed almost dreamily at the glass entrance. "If I had just helped him, it wouldn't have taken him so long to sort through the data. He could have had everything back to you the next day, and he would have gone to that office the night before the assassin tried to kill your witness. I was selfish. Selfish! It's justice that he believes I broke it off because I don't love him enough. He shouldn't be so ready to forgive me."

Don rolled that around in his head for a while. "That's…that's crazy," he finally said.

Amita looked back at him and flashed a bitter smile. "Oh, I've heard all the arguments. Charlie said all the details of his life had to congeal at the crossroads. If any one of them was missing, things might have been different. He says it was his decision to take the case, and that he forced himself on you when you went on the interview. He says that if the witness had not become an accountant, but a construction worker instead, he never would have been your witness." She smiled again, remembering. "He went so far as to say that if he had never been born, he wouldn't have been there, so we might as well blame Alan."

"But it was _me_," Don told her. "It was _my_ fault. I should never have taken a civilian with me on a witness interview. I let the exhaustion get to me, I made a bad decision, and Charlie paid for it."

Amita tilted her head. "Charlie told me that you felt that way, but I was sure he was just trying to make his point. As a scientist, I know he's right. So many, many decisions and variables factor into the shooting. No one person can be held responsible – not even a hired killer with bad aim."

"He's certainly more responsible than most," grumbled Don.

Amita nodded her head a little. "Maybe. But as a woman, a friend…as someone who hoped to be more than a friend…I can't seem to be rational about this. My ambivalence and guilt was only hurting him more. At least this way, it was a clean break. Sort-of." She looked at Don, pleading, now. "I had to say what I did to break it off, don't you see?"

And with a flash of brilliant light, Don finally did see. Charlie was right. This was a tragedy, but not one that was Don's fault, any more than it was Amita's. The injury could be survived; the disability adapted to. What was crippling to Charlie was his inability to convince two of the people dearest to him to survive and adapt with him.

He shifted a little closer to Amita. When he next spoke, she saw sadness in his eyes, and something else. A glimmer of hope? "Well," he said. "We really hold ourselves in high esteem, don't we?"

She frowned, confused. "What do you mean?"

He crossed one leg over the other knee and played with the laces on his shoe. "I mean here we are, assuming all of this power for ourselves." She still looked confused, so he spelled it out. "Amita," said Don quietly, "you and I are idiots."


	9. It's Not That Simple

**Title: Permanent Consequences **

**Author: FraidyCat**

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

**Chapter 9: It's Not That Simple**

**TIMELINE: Present Day**

Alan was a little apprehensive, sitting in his easy chair pretending to read a book, when he heard Don's SUV in the driveway. Undoubtedly, the boys had a conversation or two in their future. However, he was unsure if this was the right time. Charlie had seemed less despondent when Alan finally left him alone in his room, but he was so tired Alan had offered to help him get ready for bed, something he hadn't needed to do for months – since rehab, really. Charlie had just humored Alan, the first few weeks he was back, because he understood how much his father needed to help.

Never the most…emotionally capable…person in the room, Charlie still reeled very easily, even for him, since the accident. He had been required to deal with a lot, in the last eight months, and while Alan was always proud and sometimes surprised by how well he was adapting, he could also tell when a day had held too much. Whatever had gone wrong at the FBI offices today had been too much, and Alan worried that another confrontation with Don tonight was not in Charlie's best interests.

He was even more dismayed when he heard another vehicle pull in behind Don. He was a little disappointed in his oldest son. Don must have brought reinforcements from the office, for some reason. He listened to the kitchen door open, and tried to give Don the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he had come to apologize for whatever had happened – although in Alan's opinion, even an apology should wait for the next day.

He turned his head when the swinging door leading from the kitchen to the dining room creaked and swung open. Alan was absolutely flabbergasted to see Amita step through, Don right behind her. Amita had visited Charlie once in the hospital, after the initial ER appearance, and called him a few times at rehab, but as far as Alan knew, his youngest son and his former student were keeping a professional distance, these days. Alan had never pushed for details, and Charlie had never volunteered any.

He placed his book on the table beside him and stood awkwardly. "Amita, it's nice to see you again. You've been well?" He felt like Alan in Wonderland. A year ago, he had hoped she would be his daughter-in-law. Now, he was about to ask her about the weather.

She blushed and stammered, stopping dead in her tracks and nearly tripping Don. "Thank-you, Mr. Eppes. I've been…I've been…." She looked desperately at Don, who was now parallel to her.

He put her out of her misery. "Dad, I ran into Amita at the office this afternoon. We did some talking, and we have some things to say to Charlie. Is he home?"

Alan regarded the two of them and hesitated. "I'm not sure now is a good time," he hedged. "He may have turned in, already."

Don shook his head. "I checked his bedroom. The light's on, but it's empty." He started to turn around. "Must be in the garage. Come on, Amita."

Alan's strong voice made Don look at him again. "Donnie. Please don't upset him anymore, today. Can't this wait until tomorrow?"

Amita looked fearfully at Don. "I'm sure your father is right…"

Her words were cut off by the squeak of the swinging door again, and all three of them turned to see Charlie sitting in the doorway. His hair was wet, one hand was holding the door open, and the other was on a wheel of the chair. "I'm not in the garage," he said, guardedly. "I took a hot shower, to relax. I was still getting dressed when I heard you calling me. I thought about ignoring you, but once again I made the wrong decision. What do you want? Something you forgot to say at the office?" His eyes flickered at Amita, then back to Don. "Or did you enjoy it so much you wanted to repeat the performance for a new audience?"

Don winced. "Charlie…. Okay, I deserve that. I'm not going to insult you with an apology."

Alan cleared his throat and bent to pick up his book. "I believe I'll just go up to my room," he started. When no-one argued with him, he decided he would really do it, even if it was difficult. This family knew how to do difficult.

Don watched him ascend the staircase, then looked at his brother again. Charlie had not responded to his earlier remark. "Is it all right if we go into the living room and sit down?"

Charlie smiled at him in a way that said nothing was funny. "I am sitting," he replied.

"This was a bad idea," blurted Amita, almost wildly. Her eyes flew around the room and landed on nothing. Her hand approached her throat as if she was choking.

Don recognized the signs of panic and grabbed her elbow. He all-but dragged her into the living room, and sat her one end of the couch. He took the other, and waited to see just how angry Charlie was.

After a few seconds, Charlie pushed the door wide, dropped his other hand to the wheelchair and pushed himself through rapidly before the door hit him on the way back. It was a practiced move, one completed hundreds, if not thousands of times already, but still it impressed Don.

Charlie advanced until he was about five feet away from them and stopped. Quietly, he took his hands from the wheels and clasped them in his lap. It was the only body language that betrayed his nervousness as he looked back and forth between them. After several silent seconds, he lifted his eyebrows. "Well?"

This had been Don's idea, so he started. "After Amita and I ran into each other, we started talking, and…and I think I understand now. What you've been saying all along, I mean." Charlie wasn't helping him out a bit. "You…you know," Don persisted, "about blame. And fault."

Amita finally found her voice. "Although I do want to apologize again." She had never been quite as convinced as Don, and had grown even less so on the drive to the house. "I'm sorry I was so selfish, and refused to help you that week."

Don held his breath. He knew Charlie wasn't particularly receptive to the "S" word. That's why he had been careful not to say it, himself. He half-expected another angry retort, but his heart twisted when his brother's eyes went dark, and moist, and he saw the hands tighten their death-grip on each other.

Charlie looked at Amita impassively. "That wasn't the part where you were selfish," he finally said. "You were right to be responsible to your students, and your job, first. The selfish part came later."

Amita let a tear escape her own eyes, which were locked on his. "What do you mean?", she whispered, afraid that she already knew.

Charlie confirmed her fears. "Neither one of you could think of anything but your own self-imposed guilt. Amita, you could hardly bring yourself to talk to me; and _you_," – he switched his gaze to Don – "_you_ try to find absolution through works, as if remodeling my house and mowing my lawn and rehanging the boards in the garage will somehow make it okay…make your emotional absence acceptable." Charlie's voice was escalating, and his hands had started to wring. His eyes flashed. "Do you understand that as long as I live, I will probably _never_ have to do anything this difficult again? All the physical and occupational therapy, the counseling, learning how to do everything all over – _everything_! And you made me do all that alone, without you. My only brother.…" Charlie paused, and swallowed against a lump in his throat. "My only brother. And the woman I hoped to marry one day. You both left me." He looked accusingly at Don. "You even tried to get yourself killed, so that I could spend half my energy worrying about you!"

Don sat in stunned silence and hardly even noticed when Amita stood. "You see," she cried, wringing her own hands. "I _am_ selfish. I'm not happy with the things I've learned about myself in the last year, Charlie. I'm…"

Charlie looked at her sadly and put his hands back on the wheels of his chair. "You've referred to yourself seven times already, do you realize that? Maybe I'm the one who's being selfish now, Amita, but it can't all be about you. And I don't believe anymore that it was ever about _us_."

Amita stood in silence long enough for Don to wonder if he was ever going to breathe, again. Then, she reached in her pocket for her keys. She started for the swinging door to the kitchen, and paused briefly at Charlie's chair. She didn't even look at him when she said it. "Good-bye, Charlie. I _am_ sorry. I…" She grinned, ruefully. "Guess that's nine." She tossed her hair and squared her shoulders. "Good-bye," she repeated, and in four more steps she was through the door and out of sight.

The brothers sat in silence until they heard the kitchen door to the driveway shut. At the definitive _click_, Charlie closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and stared straight into Don's soul. "Didn't put up much of a fight, did she?"

Don was, completely, at a loss. He had brought Amita here because he thought he was doing the right thing. He realized now that truthfully, he had thought it would be the right thing for him, and for Amita; and he had assumed that Charlie would fall all over them like a kicked puppy, ecstatic to have them back. Don wanted to tell Charlie that _he_ was not giving up so easily; that _he_ had finally learned from his mistakes, but he couldn't think of a way to say that without saying "I". So he settled for the first _you_-oriented thing he could think of: "Are you all right?"

It was lame, and stupid, and he wasn't surprised at all when Charlie answered, "No"; spun his chair deftly around, and left Don in his dust.


	10. Another Brilliant Ideao

**Title: Permanent Consequences**

**Author: FraidyCat**

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

**Chapter 10: Another Brilliant Idea**

**TIMELINE: Backstory, About 6 Months Ago…**

Charlie couldn't feel how much of his ass was on the seat of the chair, so he misjudged again and slipped into the crack between the chair and the bed. Frustrated tears sprang to his eyes, and the bored voice of the attendant made him want to scream. "You almost had it that time, man. You okay?"

Charlie jerked his head up so fast he almost got whiplash. "**_No_**, dammit! I'm freakin' _paralyzed_ here, you jerk! What makes you think I could possibly be okay?" He pounded a fist on his unfeeling leg in frustration.

He would never be able to do this. Any of it. The numbers still danced in his head, distracting and teasing him, driving him crazy. He spent so much time on ridiculous things like putting his own damn socks on, and learning how to train his bladder and keep from pissing his jeans, that he had nothing left for them; and the numbers were jealous.

He had abandoned them as surely as Don and Amita had abandoned him, and he felt terrible about it. He knew, every day that went by without any form of contact from either one of them, exactly how they felt.

……………………………………………………………………………………

**TIMELINE: Present Day**

Don sat alone on the couch for a long time after Charlie left. His father never came back down, for which he was grateful; he didn't want to have to explain his latest mistake. On the other hand, the most unwise thing he could do right now was check on Charlie, and he was worried that his brother was so upset he would have an accident getting into bed by himself.

At length, the worry won out and he heaved himself off the couch. He stood and swayed a little, feeling as if he was recovering from a really bad case of the flu, before he slowly took the stairs and knocked on his father's door.

Alan called out an "Enter!", and Don opened the door. He leaned against the frame and stared helplessly at his father, who was sitting with his feet up on the bed, reading his book, staring at him over the top of his glasses. "You'd better go check on him," was all Don could manage. He continued to lean in the doorframe while Alan hurried past, into the hall. When the sound of his feet on the stairs faded, Don turned and started to follow. As he drew even with his Charlie's old room, he paused, and thought a little while.

Finally, he walked stealthily inside, as if afraid someone might ask him to leave. He quietly closed the door and crossed to the bed. He slipped off his shoes, and then climbed in fully clothed.

He lay there all night, thinking.

He lay there past Alan's footsteps on the stairs again, some time later. He lay there when the feet stopped for a moment outside the door, then moved slowly on. He lay there through the noises of his Dad using the restroom and preparing for bed, and he lay there long after Alan turned off the hall light and it no longer shone through the crack under the door.

Don lay there, in Charlie's childhood bed, now abandoned in favor of one that Alan had a carpenter custom-make. It was lower, so even with today's new, thicker, mattresses, Charlie would have an easier time getting in and out of it. Don clutched a familiar old blanket to his chest, thinking, until the sun rose.

……………………………………………………………………………………

Don was sitting at the kitchen table drinking water for breakfast – because he could not reach the coffee – when he heard his father on the stairs. He lowered the plastic bottle to the table and placed his hands flat on either side, and watched for the swinging of the door.

He didn't have long to wait. Alan was looking down, tucking his shirt in, and worked off the general impression that struck him. "Good morning, Charlie. How did you sleep?"

"Not too well, Dad," answered Don, and Alan dropped his shirttail and looked up quickly. Don saw his eyes widen, his face pale, and sincerely hoped he wasn't going to witness his dropping to the floor. Probably should have thought through the presentation a little better.

"Where…where did you get that?", Alan stammered.

"I rented it. 24-hour medical supply store," supplied Don helpfully. "You should put the coffee on a lower shelf."

Alan, eyes glued to the chair, shook his head. "Ch-Charlie only drinks tea, now. He said to leave room on the bottom shelves for other things." He took a step forward, feeling a little weak in the knees. "Oh, Donnie…this is so NOT a good idea…"

Don begged to differ. He had thought about it half the night. "I think it is. I need to _show_ Charlie that I want to understand. Let's face it, Dad, there's nothing I can _say_ anymore that will make a difference to him."

Alan finally reached the table and sat heavily in the single chair. "Have you hit your head recently on the job?"

Before Don could think of an appropriate response, they both heard the distinctive _whoosh_ of Charlie approaching the kitchen through the wide hallway that led to his new quarters in the back of the house. Alan watched the doorway with a sense of absolute dread, while Don just watched, steeling himself for the confrontation.

Charlie had given himself a big push just before he got to the kitchen, and coasted inside. He saw his father and Don at the table. "Good morning," he said, a little stiffly, surprised that Don was there. He angled the wheelchair a few degrees by changing the pressure of his hands on the wheels, and as he did so, more fully took in his brother sitting at the end of the table.

Startled, he jolted the chair to a stop so fast he bounced off the back, and had to exert some serious shoulder action to keep from tumbling out. His father reached out a silent hand to help, but it was unneeded, so he dropped it silently and held his breath.

Charlie stared at Don, his eyes traveling to the floor and back to his face, again. Charlie looked at his father. He looked back at Don, and swallowed a few times, almost convulsively. "You hate me that much," he finally whispered.

Don had tried to prepare himself for a myriad of reactions. Naturally, that was one he had not even considered. "What? No, God, no, Charlie. I want to spend the day with you. On your level. I want you to show me what your life is like, now. That's why I rented the chair."

Charlie almost sneered. He came as close as he could, since it was not an expression he had any experience with. "So I'm a tourist attraction now. An oddity to be experienced, like the Space Needle in Seattle. What the hell do you think you can learn about the last eight months of my life in one damn day sitting in a rented wheelchair?" He was shouting by the time he finished, and breathing heavily.

"Not enough," Don answered, truthfully. "I know that I used my own problems to distract me from things I did not want to see, and I know that I cannot apologize to you any more. I understand that those are only words, and I understand that both of us need to see things on a new level."

Alan looked at Don sharply, but did not say anything. Charlie, however, was not so inclined. "_Both_ of us? Sure, Don, let me just stand up and get a different perspective on things."

Don winced. "I'm just saying..." He flailed around for words. Maybe his father had been right; maybe this was so NOT a good idea.

While he searched his suddenly blank mind, Charlie continued. "At the end of the day, Don, you can get up; take your rented chair back and call it good. I'm still here. I will always be here. And I don't appreciate your trying to make some kind of…of _game_, out of it."

Don tried again, a little desperate. "Look, when you try to explain one of your math theories, or expressions, or patterns, or whatever…. When you explain them to us at the FBI, or to your students, you always find a way to put it into something we can understand. You make us relate your concept to something we already know. I'm sure you simplify the hell out of it, but you're a teacher – you know how important that step is. There's nothing in my life that relates to this, Charlie, and that won't work, this time. But I want to understand, even it's a pathetically small slice of what you've been through. You can call this another form of selfishness if you want, because that would be true. But it's only partially true. I need to show you that I'm ready to really be there, now; and you need to be able to believe in me, again. Don't lie to any of us, Chuck. You miss your big brother more than you miss walking."

Charlie had started moving his wheelchair backward a few inches, then forward a few inches, effectively "running in place". As much as he wanted to deny the truth of what Don said, he knew that he couldn't. "I get it," he said, gruffly. "You've made your point. Don't make me look at you all day in that chair." He heard his own words, and a strange look washed over his face. Seeing Don in the rented wheelchair was making him physically ill, and he knew that Don didn't really need it. Had it been even worse for Don, and their father, seeing Charlie in the chair and knowing that he did? Maybe Don was right. Perhaps Charlie _could_ use a new perspective, himself.

Don had almost given up his plan and added it to the list of "Really Stupid Things I Have Done Since Charlie Got Shot", when Charlie spoke again.

His voice wavered a little, but he got it all out. "You can reach the bread and the toaster on the West counter from your chair. I usually make the toast in the morning, and Dad scrambles eggs…or sometimes, he makes oatmeal. If you're careful, and it's not too full, you can get the carton of milk from the refrigerator to the table, if it's oatmeal. And the brown sugar is down in the cupboard to the left of the sink, now. After breakfast, you have to take a shower."

Don obediently and awkwardly turned the chair away from the table, and felt a smile plastered all over his face.


	11. Sitting a Mile in Someone Else's Chair

**Title: Permanent Consequences**

**Chapter 11: Sitting A Mile in Someone Else's Chair**

**TIMELINE: Present Day; Don's Day, Part I**

Don followed Charlie down the wide hallway, rather proud of himself. He thought he was handling the wheelchair pretty well, considering he just got it a few hours earlier. Alan trailed behind and lurked in the doorway. He still wasn't sure this was a good idea, but he had to admit, he was curious to see the ramifications of this experiment.

Charlie backed into a corner of the room and looked at Don. Surprised by the revelation -- and it was not an entirely pleasant surprise -- he was grateful to be on the same level with him, again. Actually, since he had always been shorter, he was on the same level with Don for the first time. He was still thinking about that when his brother spoke. "I took a shower earlier, but I'll do it again. I said I wanted your entire day, and I meant it."

Charlie considered. "I think it's enough if you transfer in and out of the shower. Of course, you have to take your clothes off, first."

Don grinned, thinking Charlie was kidding. "Right."

Charlie lifted an eyebrow. "Keep the boxers. Unless you're going commando, today. If you're commando, tell me now. I don't want to embarass you needlessly."

The grin faded, replaced with a slight frown. "I've got no reason to be embarassed, Charlie!" Without further delay, he yanked off his polo shirt and threw it at Charlie.

Charlie caught it, grinning himself now, and continued his instructions. "You'll need to transfer to the bed to finish. Lift your legs up -- one at a time -- and start with your shoes and socks. Then lie down for the jeans."

Don hesitated, looking behind him. Charlie had said he could leave on his boxers, but still... "Ummm...Dad's here."

Charlie laughed. "Hey, he watched me for weeks. And I don't get to leave on my boxers."

Alan protested. "A few days, at most, Charlie. And neither one of you have anything I haven't seen before."

Don wanted this conversation to end quickly, so he started wheeling toward the bed. Now that he was on a carpeted floor, the going was a little more difficult, but he got in the rhythm soon enough. He parked the wheelchair so that he was facing the side of the bed, and reached for the brakes.

"No," came Charlie's voice from behind him. "You need to be sideways, and closer to the head of the bed. You'll have to use the headboard for leverage."

"Right." _Damn. I should have thought of that_, Don thought, as he realigned himself. He wasn't too concerned about the transfer. He had always had very strong arms. When he was in position again, he reached out and grabbed the headboard, and started pulling.

"Stop," Charlie said immediately. "Don't put any weight on your legs. They're not there. Technically they are -- that's what all the PT is for, to maintain muscle tone. But when you can't feel them, you can't trust them, so you don't."

Don sat back. He hadn't realized he was putting weight on his legs, so he didn't really know how to stop. He glanced at Charlie. "I guess I don't know exactly how to do this."

Charlie was nothing if not helpful. "Do you want me to show you, once?" Don nodded, realizing for the first time that he had never seen Charlie do this. He tried to remember if he had ever watched him get into the car, or onto the couch, or anything. Don had always kept himself busy doing something useful that would not require that he watch. "Stay there," Charlie said, although Don had not made a move to leave. "I can go to the other side of the bed."

Don watched him carefully during the transfer, noting how practiced his hip swing was, and how his legs stayed almost exactly where they were. Charlie had to use his hands to lift them up onto the bed, and then off again, when he transferred back into the chair. That must be the secret, Don decided. His mind was telling his legs to move, and he needed to override that message. Charlie stayed on the other side of the bed and observed Don's second attempt. Later, Don could never determine exactly how it happened. One second he was leaning forward gripping the headboard, and the next he was in a heap on the floor, tangled up in the footrests of the wheelchair -- Charlie had done something with his, Don remembered, too late.

Alan, who had been leaning silently against the door frame, took a step forward. "Are you all right?", he asked, worriedly.

"Yeah," Don mumbled, disgusted. He started to get up. "Let me try again."

Charlie was less sympathetic than their father. "Wait, wait a minute. Find a way to get up without using your legs."

Don peered toward Charlie's voice, but couldn't really see him on the other side of the bed from his position on the floor. "Come on, Charlie. Be reasonable. You had someone helping you while you learned this, right?"

Charlie appeared in his line of sight again, rolling back to his original position in the corner of the room. He snorted. "My attendants at rehab? Are you referring to Attila the Hun, who worked nightshift, or Bluebeard? He worked days."

Don called after his back, unbelieving. "They let you fall and then made you get up by yourself?"

Charlie had whirled around to face him, again. "It's called 'learning', Don."

Alan added his observations. "He was pretty much covered with bruises when I got there."

"Do you want to give up?", Charlie challenged.

Don's eyes shot daggers across the room. "No." He tried to think of a way out of this mess. He twisted around at the waist and grabbed the arms of the wheelchair. Maybe he could pull himself up that way.

"You don't want to do that," Charlie warned. "You'll pull the chair over on top of you." He had no problem letting Don have some of the medicine he had asked for, but he was not going to let him hurt himself. Charlie still had a scar at his hairline from his own attempt at completing that maneuver.

Don let go of the chair and sagged back on the floor. He consciously worked on squelching his competitive nature and reminding himself that he really wanted to do this. "I don't know what to do," he finally admitted quietly. "Did they at least tell you what to do?"

Charlie leaned forward and propped his elbows on his unfeeling knees, clasping his hands between them. He looked straight into Don's eyes and answered quietly, his voice somehow still powerful in the large and airy room. "You have two choices. Learn how to accept help. Or push the chair out of your way, and crawl to a place where it will be easier for you to do it yourself; the bars in the bathroom, for instance. I have done both, and I recommend the first option."

Don leaned on his side on the floor, the image of Charlie crawling toward a release he would never find bringing tears to the back of his eyes. He had to take a moment to respond, but finally managed a barely audible "I understand".

Charlie nodded and straightened again in the chair. "All-right. I can see that you do. Go ahead and use your legs; get back in the chair and try again."

So Don did. After two more aborted attempts, he managed to get himself onto the bed, and he smiled in triumph at Charlie. "I did it!", he crowed before he could stop himself.

Charlie smiled fondly. "Congratulations. Take your clothes off."

Don shuddered a little. "No offense, Bro, but I never wanted to hear those words from you." Even Alan smiled over his his crossed arms, and Don carefully looked at his legs. They were stretched out, more or less straight, in front of him on the bed, where he had placed them with his hands. Confident, he leaned over and grabbed the right one, crossing it over his left at a 45-degree angle. His plan was to take off his shoe and sock, but he tipped over backwards before he could, and lay blinking at the ceiling. "Why didn't that work?", he wondered aloud.

"You've got to learn a little upper body control," snickered Charlie, who was moving now toward his large "roll-in" closet. By the time Don sat back up, Charlie has retrieved a long "reaching" tool with a grasping claw at one end. "Here," he said, balancing it on his lap and rolling to the bed. "I used this for a long time."

All-in-all, it took Don well over an hour to successfully transfer to the bed, shed his clothing, transfer back into the chair and make his way into the bathroom. Almost half-an-hour more was spent figuring out how to get in and out of the radial swing-arm shower chair, and how to operate it once he got situated. By the time Don lay on the bed again tugging his jeans up over his hips, he was exhausted. This was just a _shower_, for Pete's sake, the _beginning_ of Charlie's day. No wonder skimming the koi pond was no big deal. "How long does this take you?", he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling his polo shirt back over his head. "I'm ready for a nap."

Charlie laughed, and Alan answered proudly. "He's almost as fast as he ever was in the shower, now," he said from his new perch on the side of Charlie's desk. "He always did take his time in there. I never knew _what_ took so long." Both sons erupted into giggles then, and Alan thought about what he'd said and reddened in embarassment. "You know what I mean. Who raised you, anyway? You're both so...crass..."

Charlie pulled himself together first, and smiled over at Don. He was more relaxed around his brother than he had been since the shooting. "No nap," he informed Don happily. "I have a class this afternoon. If you're going to take this long at everything, we'd better get there early."


	12. New Perspectives

**Title: Permanent Consequences**

**Chapter 12: New Perspectives**

**TIMELINE: Present Day; Don's Day, Part II**

"Both chairs will have to go in the trunk today, Dad," Charlie apologized as they approached the car. I'll get in the back because it'll be easier for Don. Don, do you want me to show you how to get in the front seat, first?"

Don figured it had to be an adaptation of what he had learned at the bed and the shower chair, so he refused. "I got it. Thanks."

Charlie had a little bit of difficulty himself, since he was not used to the more restrictive configuration of the back seat, but eventually he made it, smiling up at his father, who stood outside the car folding up the wheelchair in preparation for storage. He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, a light sheen of sweat shining through the stubble. In truth, he was tired himself, after watching Don struggle with everything, It had reminded him how much of a struggle things had been for him, in the beginning. Charlie had gotten in the car first because he really did have a class to teach, and he didn't want to be in a position of calling Don on all of his mistakes, and making him start over, which would take longer.

Don had long-ago proven that nobody was harder on him than he was on himself, though, and he did self-police his attempts to get in the car. On the third attempt he decided he'd done the best he could without Chuck's advice, and settled. As he buckled up and waited for Alan to stow his wheelchair, he twisted around as far as he could and looked at Charlie. He still sat with his head back and eyes closed. The guilt that simmered all the time at the bottom of his soul threatened to climb to a full boil. "Charlie? You okay? If this is too much, we don't have to do it. I never meant to make your life even more difficult."

Charlie had almost fallen asleep in the warm car, but now he jerked fully awake and lifted his head. He wiggled his upper body into better position and began searching for his own seatbelt. "What? No! We're getting to campus early enough to eat lunch in the cafeteria, and then the class this afternoon is in Rainey Hall…. I have what I need for the class with me, but after, we'll have to go to my office to pick up some exams my T.A. proctored for me this morning. Then we need to be at the bus stop by 4:00, to catch Number 65. It'll drop us off right down the street, at that bus stop outside the Michaelson house?"

Alan had made it into the driver's seat for the last part of that agenda and he turned sideways to give Charlie a stern, father look. "Absolutely not, son. You are not taking the bus home. This is a ridiculous experiment anyway, but I've gone along with it, because at least you boys are talking, but you will not take the bus!"

Don was a little hurt to have what he had endured so far today downgraded to a "ridiculous experiment". "Dad, it's Thursday. You work Thursday afternoons with Stan. Doesn't Charlie usually take the bus home?"

Alan glanced at him, frowned, and looked back at Charlie. "If you insist on getting yourselves home, at least call one of the wheelchair taxi vans. They will bring you straight to the house."

Charlie was a little confused. "Dad, Don's right – I take the bus every Thursday. You do remember that Don's paralysis isn't real?" He saw hurt flash over Don's face and hastened to explain. "I mean, he's living as if it was, and he's making an excellent effort…but if push comes to shove and something happens on the bus, I'm probably safer having him with me than if I was on it alone. He can spring out of that chair and scare the crap out of anyone!"

Alan had lived with grown sons long enough to know when he'd lost. Disgruntled, he turned back in the seat and grabbed for the shoulder belt. "The point I've been trying to make for three months," he grumbled at the steering wheel. "Stubborn. Like his mother. Shouldn't be on the bus in the first place." He jabbed the key viciously in the ignition, still complaining. "Tells me it's safe. Ha! This is L.A., damn it, the bus isn't safe for anyone!"

Wisely, neither Don nor Charlie said any more, but allowed Alan to talk to the steering wheel for most of the distance to CalSci. It was obvious from the slam of his door, once he had idled the car in the loading zone in front of the Math and Sciences Building, that he was still angry. After throwing things around in the trunk for a while, the back door jerked open and Charlie saw his wheelchair, ready and waiting. Alan stood behind it in the appropriate position, but Charlie found himself a little scared that his father might jerk it out from under him at the last second and let him sprawl onto the sidewalk. At rehab, during a particularly nasty week, Bluebeard the attendant had done that do him when he had taken enough of Charlie's attitude. Of course, he had been fired the next day, too – but Charlie and Alan were pretty much non-fireable.

Charlie struggled out of the back seat and settled into the chair, reaching behind him to grab his father's wrist before he could go back to the trunk for Don's chair. "Dad, if you really don't want me to ride the bus anymore, I won't. I didn't know it worried you so much."

Alan sighed, and let Charlie hold his wrist. The last thing he wanted to do was disable his son with fear, on top of everything else. Yes, Charlie was stubborn – like Margaret; and if he wasn't, he would probably be lying in bed in a dark room right now, staring at the wall and refusing to try anything.

"You've done fine on the bus," he finally admitted. "I remember the first day you road a bus to school; since you started so young, Margaret drove you for the first few years, but you begged and begged to ride the bus. Donnie was going to a different school. He rode the bus every day and thought you were crazy. He was always offering to trade his bus priveleges with Mom Taxi." He squeezed Charlie's shoulder with his other hand and laughed softly. "You would have done it, too. In a heartbeat. Finally, when you were seven, we let you start riding the bus; there were several kids on it by then who were younger than you were. Oh, Charlie. I had to take the morning off from work, I was such a basket case. I told them later I had a doctor's appointment. Couldn't see a tough, politically active city engineer sobbing to his supervisor, 'My baby took the bus for the first time, today!'"

Another vehicle pulled into the loading zone behind them, and Alan broke off his memory, gave Charlie a pat and headed for the trunk again. By the time he had wrestled out the other chair and headed for the front of the car, Charlie had rolled up onto the sidewalk and was waiting. He felt a little sad. He had never known. He had never known his father missed work the first time he took the bus to school, and he never knew what faith it required for Alan to watch him take the bus now.

As the day progressed, Charlie was discovering that Don may not have been the only one in this family who had been selfish.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

The cafeteria had been humiliating.

First, some busy students had to place their own trays on the edge of a full table and help clean up the mess Don made when he dumped his all over. He had watched Charlie balancing his on his lap, and it had looked easy. So he had put his in the same position. One roll, and it was over. Later, his brother had told him that it had taken some experimentation with designing the tray in the correct configuration – and more than one dumping of his own – before he got it down, literally, to a science. He had even asked the food service to provide him with a list of what every choice weighed, and spent an entire afternoon in the cafeteria with one of his T.A.s helping, before he worked out the perfect system. Don had shaken his head, dumbfounded. He was relatively sure no other paraplegic went to that extreme. Only Charlie.

Then, other students had to get up and hastily clear chairs away from a table so that there was room for both of their wheelchairs. Don was finding it difficult to find his comfort zone, which was under the radar. Everything he did brought attention to himself, whether he wanted, or needed, it; or not.

It was difficult negotiating the crowded sidewalks to Rainey Hall, and the fact that it was slightly downhill from the cafeteria, which initially Don had seen with relief, made it worse. The chair wanted to gather speed and go into a death-roll, and he had to strain his arm muscles to keep some semblance of control. Twice, he almost ran over coeds, and once he bumped into the back of Charlie's chair so hard, only quick reflexes kept his brother from shooting out the other side.

The sidewalk finally leveled out around the building, and Charlie led him around the side, to a wheelchair ramp. Now Don found himself straining to make the chair go _up_. Damn. The entire world needed to be bulldozed. The ramp was wide enough for them to ascend side-by-side, although Don got the feeling Charlie was holding himself back to stay with him. "Could…" – _gasp_ – "Couldn't M-M-Millie put all your…" – _grunt_ – "…c-classes in one place?" – _sigh_ – "N-near your office?"

Charlie somehow managed to shrug while he was pushing the chair. "She did pretty well. She also managed to keep Amita and I on opposite ends of the campus at all times. She should be a wedding planner, and design seating charts. She and Dad could open a business."

The had reached the door, finally, and took a moment to rest before passing through. "Oh, yeah," Don smirked. "Maybe in partnership with The Caterer. Remember her?"

Charlie laughed. "A threesome of any definition involving my father OR my boss is not a welcome image, Don." He rolled forward another foot, leaned forward, and pulled open a heavy door. He pulled it with him as he backed into the side wall of the ramp, and angled his chair using one hand, which he then used to indicate the interior of the lecture hall. "Please. Age before Beauty."

………………………………………………………………………………………………

The downhill trip from the cafeteria to Rainey Hall had been difficult, but at least it was an upper division course, and Don had no idea what Charlie was saying. He found it interesting that now that Charlie couldn't reach the white boards, he mostly worked off his laptop and a projection system much like the one he used at the FBI. He had always been a physically active teacher, though, and he still was. He would literally _wander_ in the chair around the front of the class, and if he found himself too far from the laptop, would scoot up to the white board anyway and reach as high as he could on it to scribble something down. They soon took on a surrealistic appearance, the top half of each a pristine white; the bottom half almost black with scribbles. Fascinated as he was, Don sat near the back of the room, felt his arms burning from overuse, and fell asleep.

He was relieved, when the class was over, to find the trek to the building where Charlie's office was, to be slightly uphill.

For the first hundred yards, or so.

Then it became a switchback mountain trail that traveled straight into the sky. Don's chair wanted to roll backwards to Rainey Hall, and he was tempted to let the chair make its own decisions. All attempts at conversation were soon aborted, as Don huffed and puffed his way toward the building. When the ground leveled out a little about halfway there, Charlie pulled over to the side of the concrete, where there was a small sitting area; a bench, a trash can next to it.

Don was relieved beyond belief, but didn't want to stop and rest if it wasn't something Charlie usually did. He waited until Charlie had spun his chair to sit facing him, then looked at him inquiringly. "What?"

Charlie's dark eyes took on a pleading look. "Don. I appreciate this, I really do. I mean, it took me a while, but I can see now how committed you are to experiencing and understanding my life. I've been pretty hard on you – I wasn't wheeling all over campus the first day I was in a wheelchair. Please let me call Larry; he'll be happy to bring the tests down from my office. You're starting to make me feel guilty."

Don had been all set to refuse, until Charlie added that last line. He knew about guilt. He knew enough about guilt that he couldn't knowingly cause any for his brother. Reluctantly, he agreed. Charlie extricated his cell phone from somewhere, and within 10 minutes Larry was sitting on the bench, nodding. He was adding a sheaf of papers to the pack hanging on the back of Charlie's chair and listening to the details of Don's life choices, that day.

He zipped the pack closed and smiled at Don. "It's quite an ingenious solution to your recent communication problems, really," he said. "It demonstrates a genuine interest in the details of Charles' life, as well as sending a sub-level message, of unwavering support. I still recall my first year of teaching, at Princeton. One of my students showed up bald one day. This was long before that behavior was the norm, I assure you. When I remarked upon it later, he said that his sister had lost all of her hair during a round of chemotherapy, and he wanted to show his support, somehow. Since then, I have heard of many similar head shavings; every time I do, I remember what a deep impression that young man's compassion made on me."

The brothers Eppes sat silently, each trying not to remember. Margaret had always insisted, to the very end, that her nurses and attendants make her "presentable", as she put it, for her family. After she had died, there had been several wigs, scarves, and head kerchiefs that were kindly taken by one of the night nurses. She intended to have them all cleaned, and donate them in Margaret's name to a local hospice.

Larry could see from their faces that his story did not ignite for them the fond memories it did for him, so he tried another tack. "Don't believe that it should all be as easy as Charles makes it look," he admonished Don. "He was in New Hampshire for months at rehab, and even then there was a steep learning curve when he returned to CalSci. Did he tell you about the time he fell out of the chair and tumbled halfway down to Pelbert Hall?"

Don was much happier with this story, and grinned widely. "No. No, Larry, he didn't."

Charlie flashed Larry a dirty look before he glanced at Don. "I may not have allowed enough time to reach a division meeting, and I was hurrying. You remember the control we had to use going downhill to Rainey." Don nodded, arms burning again. "Well, Pelbert is below Rainey, and the gradiant is steeper. I just lost control."

"Indeed," interjected Larry drily. "I was nearly in a dead run, trying to keep up with him. Apparently he ran over a pebble on the sidewalk, and that was it. Catapulted, I tell you, absolutely catapulted out of the chair. It's humorous now, but at the time, seeing him somersault several feet until he finally veered off the sidewalk, onto the grass…well. Needless to say, it was not amusing."

Don had never heard this story, and it worried him in retrospect. He wondered if his Dad knew about this. Probably not…. "Were you okay?" he asked, anxiously.

Charlie laughed, looking at Larry. "I was a little startled, of course. I might have even gone into a mild shock, until I saw Larry's face hovering over me. Do you remember what you said? It was priceless."

Larry shifted some on the bench. He looked at Don. "It was a perfectly reasonable response. I merely suggested that he lie still and stay down, for he might have broken a leg. And I asked him if anything hurt."

Charlie was laughing again, one hand at his side. "I was laying there, surrounded by students and gawkers. I looked at him and said, 'I think it may be too late, Larry. I'm afraid I might be paralyzed."

Don laughed in spite of himself, and Charlie looked at him with a certain relief. He shrugged again. "It was no big deal. I somersaulted because they taught me to do that, in case of a fall. Tuck and roll, protect your head. I skinned my elbow is all." He looked at his watch, then back at Don. "Still up for a bus ride?"

Larry stood and gripped Charlie's shoulder for a moment as he passed behind him. "You boys enjoy yourselves. Don't eat anything you find on the floor of the bus." Charlie called thanks after him for bringing down the papers, and Larry held up a hand in salute, continuing up the hill.

Charlie smiled at Don. "Come on. Bus stop is on the other side of campus."

Don suppressed a groan, and followed his brother's wheels.


	13. Sunset

**Title: Permanent Consequences**

**Chapter 13: Sunset**

**TIMELINE: Present Day; Don's Day, The Third Trimester**

Don couldn't remember the last time he had ridden a bus. Charlie hadn't been driving that long before the shooting, so he was used to alternate forms of transportation…not that he was riding his bike much these days. Don could see the large vehicle lumbering down the street toward the campus bus stop and waited anxiously for Charlie to tell him what to do. Students loitering in and around the tiny glass booth began advancing to the curb, leaving Don with a vague sense of claustrophobia as they towered over him.

"Just let them get on first," Charlie said quietly, as if reading his mind. "We need to go the wheelchair lift near the back door."

Before Don could answer, a burly undergrad leaned over and stuck his face almost into his brother's. "Hey, Dr. Eppes. You and your friend need some help, today?"

Don fully expected Charlie to politely refuse. If the day had taught him anything so far, it was that Charlie could handle himself. He was a little surprised, then, when he saw Charlie nod. "Yes, Dennis, thank you. If you could just help us onto the ramp..." He looked over at Don's startled expression. "Not the smoothest lift in the world," he explained, then he raised an eyebrow. "And don't forget your first lesson this morning."

Don remembered: "Learn how to accept help." He had learned today, in his brief outing, that the world was not a friendly place to someone who sat down on the job, so to speak, and he began to understand that lesson #1 was probably the most difficult for some people to learn. He was sure it would have been for him. Now he just nodded silently, as the bus finally pulled into the curb.

The students – except Dennis – dissipated into the front entrance, while Don followed Charlie and Dennis to the back. The bus driver had seen them – or maybe he was used to picking Charlie up here – and the wheelchair ramp began to lower as the wide back entrance opened. By the time the hydraulic lift was on the sidewalk, Charlie had positioned himself just in front of the lip. He would have let Don go first, but he understood that Don needed to see him perform the task, first. So Charlie let Dennis push him over the metal lip, and secure his chair to the ramp using the restraints provided. Don could see that Dennis must help Charlie out a lot, and he was relieved to know that there was somebody helping him when he and his father weren't around. As the lift began to ascend, Don rolled a little closer to watch Charlie, who grinned down at him. "Just like Disneyland," he quipped, and Don smiled. As the ramp leveled out with the bus interior, Charlie leaned over and released the restraints, as well as the locks on his wheelchair, and rolled off. The lift lowered again for Don, as Charlie positioned himself in one of the back corners that the bus system had torn seats out of to accommodate wheelchairs.

Don let Dennis repeat his performance, unaccountably nervous, and managed to thank him as the lift began to rise. When it was high enough that he could see where Charlie was sitting, and the small bus-token receptacle jutting out of the floor next to him – an obvious afterthought – Don was a little perturbed. Were paraplegics the new Rosa Parks, relegated to the back of the bus? Don looked toward the front of the bus, and didn't see anywhere else where they could go.

The lift jolted to a stop, and for a moment he forgot what to do. Charlie smiled at him encouragingly, and Don remembered to lean over and work on the restraints. As he did so, he heard a snide, masculine voice echoing in the bus. "Great. First the bus is almost 10 minutes late, and now we have to wait for not one, but _two_ of them. We're even farther behind schedule, now!"

Don looked up sharply, finding the owner of the voice a few seats away. He forgot that he was one of the people the man was complaining about, and remembered only that Charlie was in a wheelchair. "This is a public bus system! Who the hell do you think you are?" He had his hands on the arms of the chair, ready to stand, when he saw Charlie frown and hesitated.

"I'm gonna be late for work again," the stranger growled right back at him. "My boss ain't gonna care that it's your fault, he's gonna dock me anyway!" He looked at Charlie with disgust. "You guys qualify for all kinds of government assistance anyway, you probably don't even know what getting to work on time means!"

Don had thought everything he had done that day was difficult, but nothing was as hard as keeping his seat and not punching that asshole right through the side of the bus. He sat fuming until Dennis crossed in front of him. The student had run down the sidewalk while the ramp was lifting, hopped onto the bus and made his way down the aisle. Now he tugged Don's chair off the ramp where it still sat. "Don't mind him," he said quietly as he pushed Don into the space next to Charlie. "Everybody knows he's full of it. You all set, Professor?"

Charlie casually placed a hand on Don's arm and smiled up at Dennis. "Yes. Thank-you, Dennis." The young man turned and walked halfway back up the aisle until he found a vacant seat. As soon as he was down, the bus pulled away from the curb.

Don glared in the direction of the man -- even though he had lost real eye contact with him when Dennis had shoved him into the corner -- for several miles, breathing heavily. Neither brother spoke for several stops, until the guy finally got up to disembark, shooting them a final dirty look.

Don saw Charlie smile, then casually flip him off. He couldn't believe what he just saw, and he grinned in spite of himself. "Did you just…"

"Yeah," Charlie answered. "Every time I've ridden the bus for the last three weeks, this guy has made some comment." He looked apologetically at Don. "He's never been quite that bad before, though. I'm sorry."

Don shook his head. "Why? Geez, Charlie, that asshole isn't your responsibility!" Don was still fuming from the original confrontation, and now felt even worse, knowing that his brother put up with this on a regular basis. "How often do you hear stuff like that?"

Charlie shrugged, and grinned a little. "Honestly? Probably not as often as it's said. You know me. I tend to space out every now and then. Although I'm trying to be more careful about that. Last week I ran over a woman outside the physical therapy office. Luckily, she was bringing someone else in, so it's not like she was on crutches or anything." He looked suddenly chagrined. "Although she could be, now."

Don laughed, although he was still appalled that people such as that bus rider were part of Charlie's world – part of anybody's, for that matter. He managed to get his mind off it when another thought filled his consciousness with fear. "Do you still have therapy, today?"

It was Charlie's turn to laugh now. "Relax, Don. I don't have that on the days I teach. Negotiating the campus is enough of a workout, don't you think?"

"You said it," grumbled his brother, massaging one sore bicep.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

By the time they arrived at their own stop, Dennis was long-gone. In fact, the bus was mostly empty, so Don and Charlie had to push themselves onto and off the lift, over the unforgiving lip. Don looked up as the bus pulled away from the curb. He was grateful the sidewalk was more or less even all the way home. On the other hand, it was almost three blocks, and he wasn't looking forward to it. His hands had blisters on them now. "I won't be able to hold a gun for a week," he grumbled, trailing after Charlie. Again he had to suppress the urge to get up out of the chair and do some physical damage to someone, when he heard his brother laugh.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

It was 4:30 in the afternoon by the time they rolled up the ramp into the front door of the house. The ramp wasn't quite as steep as the one to the kitchen door, so Charlie took pity on his brother, claiming he had to stop and check for the mail. Once inside, Charlie rolled toward the dining room. He stopped to sling his backpack on the table. "I'll probably just grade these tests until Dad gets home around 6," he said. "You can transfer to the couch and watch the news, or something. Remember to lift your legs up onto it with your hands, if you lay down!"

Don didn't have to be told twice, and he stopped abruptly in the living room and then began to back up a little to the couch. Charlie started up again, toward the kitchen. "I'm getting some water," he called behind him. "Want a beer or something?"

Don could hardly believe it himself when he said no, but he honestly thought lifting a beer bottle to his lips right now might be too much for his arms. While Don settled on the couch, Charlie continued into the kitchen, stopping at the refrigerator. Opening the door to grab a bottle of water, he saw the plastic bag of marinating steaks that his father must have put in there at some point this morning. He leaned inside to grab the bag, shake it, and turn it over, then plucked out a water bottle. Closing the door, he opened the bottle and took a long drink. Then he re-capped it, laid it in his lap, and headed back for the dining room. As he passed again through the swinging door, he looked at Don on the couch, and grinned.

His brother was fast asleep. He hadn't even managed to turn on the television.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

Don woke up because he smelled tri tip on the broiler, and he was drooling. He groaned and rolled over before he remembered where he was, and quickly thrust a leg out to keep himself from tumbling off the couch. He sat up slowly, lifting an arm to rub his eyes and wincing at the sudden clenching pain in his upper arm muscles.

"Not as easy as you thought it would be?"

Don heard his father's voice and looked over to see him peering at him over his glasses from the easy chair, open book held on his lap.

Don yawned. "Never thought it was easy. Just didn't expect it to be so hard," he answered truthfully. He looked around dully, knowing he would have to lie down again and transfer the proper way. "Where's my chair?"

Alan stood, looking at his watch. "Dinner's almost ready. It's in the back of your SUV, so you can take it back. Charlie asked me to put it there."

Don looked up at him, confused. "What? Why? Won't he still go to the garage for awhile, or something? At the very least, he has to go to bed."

Alan started for the kitchen. "Acutally, he's already started the laundry and graded half his papers. He'll do the other half tonight, or in the morning before therapy. Why don't you go out to the koi pond, and tell him dinner is almost ready." He paused at the door, looking back seriously at Don. "He's been out there a while."

Sensing a silent message from his father, Don stood, a little unsteadily, and did as he suggested. Less than two minutes later he was approaching Charlie at the pond. Charlie's chair sat near the bench. He wasn't skimming the pond this time, but merely sitting and watching the fish. He was completely absorbed, and didn't seem to notice when Don sat down on the bench. He looked…sad, and Don felt apprehensive, hoping he hadn't done something wrong. Maybe it was the jerk on the bus. That kind of thing had to get to a person. "Why did you have Dad put my chair in the SUV?", he finally asked. "I would have finished the day."

Charlie jerked a little in the chair – he really hadn't noticed Don sitting down on the bench. "Oh," he said, quietly. "Hi. Hi. Is dinner ready?"

Don tilted his head a little. "Almost. So what about the chair?"

Charlie sighed, and rolled a little closer to the koi pond. "It's too hard," he answered, his voice even quieter.

Don strained to hear him, and then frowned. "What? What's too hard, Buddy?"

Charlie's head jerked up and he looked back at Don. "God. You haven't called me that since before I was shot. I've missed it." His eyes teared up, startling Don, and he looked away. "I've missed you."

Don stood and took the few steps to stand next to Charlie. "I've missed you too," he admitted. "Today was…difficult, physically, but it was nice, too. Spending time with you, joking around…being brothers."

Charlie sniffed. "That's why it's hard," he said. "I don't want to see you in that chair, again. I've been afraid for years that something like that – or worse – would happen to you. Please don't make me watch you in that chair anymore. Watching you in that chair is harder than being in one myself."

Don squatted on legs that protested, having had most of the day off. He waited until Charlie looked at him, then held his gaze with his own eyes. "I know," he said. "I would go back to it in an instant, if it meant that you could get out of yours."

A single tear rolled down Charlie's cheek and he brushed it away impatiently. "It's only a prison sentence if we let it be, Don. It only wins if we let it take us away from each other."

Don had learned a lot in the last 24 hours. The most important lesson was one he had known for years – Charlie was almost always right. "Not gonna happen," he smiled, leaning his head against his brother's. "I may be a slow learner, but I'm back, now."

Charlie let himself lean into Don and sniffed again. "Good," he managed to whisper.

From the kitchen window, Alan saw the sun setting, glinting off the water of the koi pond and the dark hair of his sons. Their heads were together, and from where he stood, it was difficult to tell where one ended, and the other began. For the first time since Charlie was shot, his heart felt true peace – because that was exactly as it should be.

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END

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**A/N: Okay, sobbing like a little girl again, here. I didn't even know this was the last chapter until about three paragraphs from the end – this story wrote itself, dragging me along for the ride. Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did! (Check out Howling Thunder's long-anticipated "Wish You Were Here", and watch for a collaboration with Serialgal coming soon to a fanfic near you! This has been a commercial break.)**


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